


no denying

by anthean



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, Innuendo, Lack of Communication, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 04:37:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4006111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anthean/pseuds/anthean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You didn’t ask how I fared at the Barriere du Maine,” Grantaire says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	no denying

**Author's Note:**

> Written for tumblr user afamiliardog's prompt. She asked for E/R, sphallolalia (flirtatious talk that leads nowhere) and lalochezia (the use of vulgar or foul language to relieve stress or pain). Ended up containing very little sphallolalia and almost no lalochezia, whoops.

Enjolras’ boot pinches a little in the heel; he shifts to ease it, and with the motion realizes that the room is empty. He dimly remembers Combeferre bidding him goodnight some hours ago, but he’d been caught up half in concentration on the partly-drafted treatise before him and half in formless reverie, lulled by his friends’ voices surrounding him. Enjolras shuffles his papers together without thought to their order, and although he doesn’t sigh his shoulders drop. The hour is late, and his landlady will already have locked her doors. She’s tolerant of his odd hours and habits, but Enjolras always feels obscurely guilty every time his late arrivals force her out of bed to let him in.

Standing, he picks up his hat from where it rests on the table and puts it on. He’s forgotten his gloves, but the nights have grown warm as the year creeps further into spring. The papers are folded and tucked under his arm, and he turns towards the door.

The room is not empty, as he’d assumed. Grantaire slouches drunkenly in the corner by the door, hunched over his table and rolling something over his fingers—a small coin, or a button. He doesn’t react as Enjolras stands, but as Enjolras reaches the door he straightens up a little.

“You didn’t ask how I fared at the Barriere du Maine,” Grantaire says. His voice is steady, but that means nothing.

“I didn’t need to, I was there,” Enjolras says.

“Ah,” sighs Grantaire. The button slips across his knuckles. “An account of my failure is not necessary. Very well, I will not provide one; no doubt you have written your own already, and my tale will seem but poorly plagiarized in comparison.”

“Come to your point, Grantaire,” Enjolras says—not unkindly, he thinks.

“My point? I rarely have one. Cast your mind back over your narrative; do you not see any action for which I deserve a reprimand? I can read the book of your thoughts even as you write it, and that wrinkle on your brow is especially clear: you are angry, and since I’ve robbed you of the opportunity to berate me for drunkenness I must provide an alternative.” He gestures at the table before him and the floor under it, and Enjolras realizes, with a flash of shame, that they are empty of bottles: Grantaire is sober, or at least drunk on nothing more than his own cynicism.

“You wish me to scold you for your behavior, which was no more than I expected or hoped for? I’m not your mother, Grantaire.”

“No,” Grantaire says, drawn out into three syllables. “My mother is the _Republic_.”

Enjolras’ breath catches. “I am not playing your games,” he snaps, aware that by responding at all he’s giving the lie to his own words. “If I’m angry, it’s at myself for giving you a task clearly beyond your abilities. After all, you only offered to polish my boots.” Grantaire flinches—just a slight tightening of his mouth, a flicker of his eyes, but Enjolras catches it and feels ashamed for the second time that evening. Whatever else Grantaire deserves, it’s not this mindless lashing out. He puts his hand on the door, intent on leaving before he causes any more inadvertent pain.

“Of course,” says Grantaire, and the button spins between his fingers. “You would prefer me on my knees; it is, after all, within the range of my _abilities_.”

“I prefer you with your mouth stopped,” Enjolras says, harsh, words spoken before he knew they were meant, “by any means necessary, and with a bottle only if no other methods are available.”

The button drops from Grantaire’s suddenly limp fingers. It rolls into the corner and clatters to a stop. In the silence, Enjolras’ breath hisses through his nose. Grantaire stares at the empty tabletop, shoulders rounded and face lowered. His hands are folded across his chest, and Enjolras is unable to place the strangeness he feels before he realizes the gesture is defensive. He’d expected a mocking retort, another of Grantaire’s incoherent rants, something other than this submissive stillness that sits so heavily on Grantaire’s shoulders.

“I must go,” Enjolras says, feeling that something has passed between them that he hasn’t quite understood.

“Go, then,” Grantaire mutters, stiller than Enjolras has ever seen him, and Enjolras pushes the door open and stumbles down the stairs into the night.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the Johnny Cash/Nick Lowe song ["Without Love"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MvwwxZFrIsw), which has always been my Grantaire song.


End file.
